Tonight I am sleeping at my house in Port Richmond for the last time. The last year has flown by in a snap, but it still seems like decades since I moved into this row home on Amber Street.
A year ago, my heart hurt. I felt like the walking wounded. Moving into this house saved me from yet another month of evenings spent at the Last Drop, filling my journal with tragic paragraphs about my ex-boyfriend. There were boxes to unpack and walls to fill and windows to cover. There was no time for despair. For the first few months, I skipped dinner most nights, too busy with turning my house into something. It was better than a rebound relationship or a mild slide into alcoholism.
Somewhere along the line, I began to forget about that notorious ex-boyfriend (but there were some stop/starts in that process). And everything in my life started betting better and better. I think that my new home in West Philly is part of that trend.
I’m smelly. My hands and hair are covered with purplish-grey paint. My head aches from paint fumes and squinty-eyed meticulous mural-hanging. I’m so tired, I’m almost weepy. But I am so excited about the next year and the next five years and so on.